


Toe to Toe

by tangle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, did someone say interspecies misunderstandings, post-game au where ss lives because a girl can dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 11:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangle/pseuds/tangle
Summary: So you aren't the best dancer. No big deal. Plus, this ain't even like dancing to the guy, it's like fucking. Your internal monologue freezes. Shit, you think. Suddenly it's a big deal.





	Toe to Toe

Your name is Spades Slick and you've made it through hell and back more times than you can count and more times than you even know of thanks to an infinite number of timelines that come from the weird time shenanigans you’re forced to face on a daily basis. To say that you’ve seen some shit would be a vast and insulting understatement, yet somehow even with all the flavors of trouble you’ve been forced to swallow and the years of experience in dealing with the strange and unusual stashed under your belt, nothing could have prepared you for the final trial that was going steady with one of your old enemies and current second-hand man. 

For starters, he’s not your usual type in any sense of the word. He’s all soft on the outside which clashes to an almost hilarious extent with your own hard-shelled suit of carapace. Fortunately, his personality is antithetical to the way he feels at the touch which is really all that matters to you at the end of the day; whether a guy can take multiple stabs physiologically says way more than how many he can take to the abdomen in your experience. 

But despite your glaring outward differences, there’s something about the two of you that feels just _right_ even when he and you are made of entirely different kinds of somethings. He’s got a way with a knife that makes your shell trickle in all the right ways and it’s not an exaggeration to say that the man knows his way around pointed objects, that’s for damn sure. No euphemism intended. 

You wouldn’t _exactly_ describe you as “going steady” though because “going steady” alludes to things, well, going steady. And hell if your relationship is anything like a calming walk in the park. In fact, it almost touches the exact opposite of just that and leaves you all kinds of anxious for reasons you don’t make a habit of thinking on too long. Feelingsy bullshit is the exact opposite of your forte and the exact opposite of his and it’s so it’s with no small amount of relief that you know you can keep all forms of sappy word vomit swallowed down like the perfectly rational and level-headed person that you are. 

Now, you don’t really call your alone and off the clock outings dates, but you don’t not call them dates neither. Mostly one of you ( usually Crowbar ) ends up coming ‘round and asking if you’ve got some downtime to do nothing special in particular. You know what he means. You usually say you could probably cancel your 5 o'clock knife sharpening appointment, he says some equally as sarcastic shit, and you both meet wherever the fuck it is you planned on meeting.

Today he says he wants to take a stroll around the planet, and with some sort of resolve in his voice that you know means he’s got something at least somewhat important to discuss with you. 

But when the two of you do end up getting together for some evidently important chitchat, the guy’s awfully quiet for someone who had previously come at you with an almost uncharacteristic amount of gung-ho. He only gives you a halfway polite dip of the hat before starting off in a random direction with some sort of weird gesture that you assume means “follow me” for lack of better options. And again, for lack of better options, you follow.

And follow.

In complete silence as he walks in an abnormally straight line as if veering off even slightly to the left would spin him right smack dab in the middle of your line of sight and force him face to face with a foe he knew he couldn’t outdraw in the duel of confrontation. Exactly what the fuck he was avoiding, however, you hadn’t a clue. You decide to be charitable and count down from ninety before you spit some angry demands that he fess up to whatever’s been eating at him because whatever it is it’s a goddamn virus seeing as it’s started nibbling away at you, too. 

You get tired at sixty-three. 

”Alright,” you say, before giving a sharp click of your tongue and tactfully continuing with, “What the fuck’s up with you?”

You stop dead in your tracks so he can no longer continue forward as an excuse not to look at you, and knowing better than to stand looking off at nothing like the spineless asshole he was acting the part of, he turns towards you.

He makes a face at the ground before looking to the side and back to, repeating the motion for what feels like forever as if trying to find the words to say something in particular.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he says finally, eyes still deliberately not meeting your own.

“I know nothin’ when I see nothin’,” you say, “And that ain’t nothin’.”

“Exactly,” he says back just as quickly. “It ain’t nothin’.”

“Real funny,” you say, not laughing.

Quiet follows after, and your mind starts wandering off to follow just about any trail that might lead to what Crowbar, of all people, was biting his tongue for. It’s your turn to feel uneasy, and you start walking again, giving his same, half-assed “follow me” gesture as a little well-deserved jab for inviting you out just to play some weird little mindgame with you. The two of you stroll in silence for what seems like a long, _long_ while before you both open your traps and start speaking at the same time. You both close them just as quickly. 

“After you,” you both say at the same time again.

You get sick of the charade fast and tell him he better start talking. He actually starts talking.

“I’ve just been thinking and all, y’know…” he starts, rubbing at the back of his head sheepishly. “That it might be about time that we, uh…”

You wait. You’re not a very patient kind of guy, but if it’s Crowbar speaking something he’d rather not say aloud you figure this is probably gonna be worth it.

“Take our relationship to…” He swallows hard, becoming red in the cheeks again as his voice drops to something close to just above a mumble. “To the next level.”

Your first reaction is to freeze.

Now, don’t get you wrong, you've never been one to shy away from the notion of a good roll in the metaphorical hay and you aren't about to start now, but something about the way Crowbar shuffles his feet without giving you that goddamn insufferable yet now sorely missed sly look almost makes you equal parts embarrassed to be in this situation and you curse that stupid inconvenience of a thing called empathy.

Luckily, anger has always been your strong-suit and pure irritation outweighs the awkwardness so you force yourself to spit out a more characteristic, “About fuckin’ time. If I had to sit on my ass and wait around for you to make a proper move any longer, I’d of lost my goddamn mind.”

“What? Too chicken shit to make the first move yourself?” You no longer miss that sly look. In fact, you hope you never see it again. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, and you’re not, the both of you had been pussyfooting around the matter of consummating things since the get go, neither having ever initiated anything more than a rough kiss in the dark corners of the hideout whenever you had a few fleeting seconds alone before a big heist or what have you. Your private scandal was weird— not only physically, but in terms of the actual relationship itself, too. 

You swear you’ve gotta have some sort of weird fetish for right-hand men, ‘cause the only other red relationship you’ve dipped your toes into besides this one was with your _previous_ second in command as well.

But Droog was another matter entirely. First off, your relationship was best described as a paler kind of red rather than the stark flush you know this one is. There’s more sentiment sewn into all the finer linings that you’d both never admit to handcrafting yourselves, and you don’t even think the guy has an existing thing to describe romance of the whiter variety to begin with. 

See, with Crowbar things are different not only in the species, physical and goddamn emotional sense, but apparently he isn’t just hearts for you— he’s clovers and a pot of fucking gold for you, too. Golden for short, they call it. You’re bothered by the fact you even remember all that and the fact that having more than three “charms” is like their version of holy fucking matrimony and so it’s with deliberation that Crowbar doesn’t initiate whatever the hell the word for going steady times four is. Apparently things are already pretty serious at three, and you don’t think about how you might be engaged. 

You cough.

“So,” you start, finally breaking the shared contemplative silence, “Your place or mine?”

The realization that his place _is_ yours hits you as soon as the words leave your mouth, but he decides to spare the moment more various brands of tension and lets your slip-up slide smooth without any lip for what you’re sure is the first time in his life. 

“How’s about your room? Usual time?”

“Sure, alright,” you say, sly look and all. “Usual time.”

It’s when everyone’s tucked away doing god knows what that he always knows to make his way over. It’s probably best you don’t know what the rest of your crew are up to anyway, you decide, only reflecting for the second you need to on the past openings of incorrect doors and the sudden sights of chickens in weird situations or duplicates of your crew in situations even stranger.

You’d been out and about some other newly discovered unoccupied planet in whatever the fuck was the official name of your new solar system, so funny enough you’re late to the rendezvous that takes place in your own quarters. 

You’re not really sure how to go about this, being late to your own room to sleep with your second in command soon-to-be official boytoy that is. Not that you, of all people, are nervous or anything. You don’t think about how in your moment of not-nerves you used the term boytoy. Instead, you find yourself awkwardly rapping your knuckles on the doors thrice just to give him some kind of warning you were entering as if you weren’t about to walk into your own goddamn room.

Knocking is as polite as you’ll go, and you don’t wait for a response before you let yourself in.

What initially catches your attention is the lighting– you’re caught off guard first and foremost by the sight of a darkened room lit by scattered candles of the sweetly spiced variety, and it’s only then that you realize some classic-like romantic song you don’t recognize has been playing on what sounds like an old radio someplace in the distance. It registers that you’d heard it before you entered, but only now were you actually _hearing_ it. 

You don’t have time to fuss over where your observational skills ran off to, because they’d apparently taken off full speed in some unknown direction since it’s only when Crowbar is clearing his throat awkwardly that you realize, oh yeah, that guy’s here, too. And no, you still aren’t nervous.

He clears his throat once more. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. And as he steps forward with forced bravado, you contemplate meeting him half-way but decide against it, instead content to see where he decides to take things himself and how fast. Again, it isn’t because you’re nervous or anything. 

And then, somehow both abruptly and naturally, is his head dipping down so that his hat covers a good portion of his face as he carefully extends his hand and asks in the most gentlemanly-like way you ever did hear from the guy, “May I have this dance?”

At first you’re dead silent. 

Sizing him up in the quiet to see if this moron actually managed to find himself a sense of humor but unfortunately located it up his ass leaving him with this shitty attempt at a joke.

But as the silence stretches and Crowbar peers up from behind his hat with a look of damn nerves instead of a stupid “gotcha”, you realize that no– no he’s serious.

After another second of leaving him hanging passes, his hand finally drops an inch as his head tilts back up again to silently search you for answers. Something’s wrong, he knows, something’s wrong and he– His expression falls.

“Goddammit,” he says. “God fucking dammit. You ain’t– this won't– Son of a fuck, you don't even got a clue as to what I’m aiming at here, do you?” The man looks like he'd throw his hat down if he didn't respect it as much as he did. 

“This is just… Christ,” he finishes gracefully. Cleanest and clearest explanation you’ve ever heard.

“What,” you deadpan, expressing your gratitude for his way with words. You planned to say more than just “what”, but “what” does the job just fine, you decide.

He stops his babbling for a moment to compose himself, then sighs, before pinching the bridge of his non-existent nose and stating the obvious, “we’re different species.”

“No fucking shit,” you say, not catching his drift.

He clicks his tongue, shifting his weight and straightening his hat like some guilty sonnabitch fidgeting on trial.

“This don’t mean the same thing to you as it does to me,” he explains in a way you think is pretty half-assed. Fortunately, he decides to continue, but not without asking you a rhetorical question instead of just letting you have some instant peace of mind like he could.

“What kind of business did you think was gonna go down tonight?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for your response. “Because whatever it was for you is what this is to me, if you catch my drift.”

“Oh,” you say. And that’s all you can say is oh.

Things gets real awkward fast and Crowbar’s expression turns straight sour before he turns away from you entirely, mumbling some shit to himself about common sense all while looking downright distraught.

“Look,” you say, feeling guilty suddenly. Leave it to someone like him to make you feel bad for some bullshit that ain’t even your fault twice in one goddamn night. “If dancing is what gets your rocks off, then fine, let’s do it.”

“My what?” he says.

“Forget it,” you say.

He forgets it.

“You… you don’t gotta go doing this for my sake. I mean if this ain't the way you roll, it ain't the way you roll. Simple as that.” 

“No,” you say. “No, I want to.”

Crowbar gives you a look that you read as both pleasantly surprised and cautiously hesitant.

You’ll get this whole thing over with before you even begin to get the chance to regret it, you decide, and move to close the door behind you before one of your men walks by and catches sight of you playing a whole ‘nother level of footsies of the evidentially most scandalous variety.

You approach him more tentatively than you’d like to admit, and almost naturally does his hand find your waist as the other carefully laces its fingers with your own. Your eyes narrow up at him in a way that you hope reads as “_you know how lucky you are to be able to get away with this shit, right?_” and not a “_so I see you’ve gotten around you little hussy_”.” Jealousy wasn’t even within your range of emotions. Or at least as far as you claim. Warily, you hook your free arm around his neck. The gesture incites him to draw closer, your arm further tightening its hold as the distance slowly closes and you’re left pressed against each other.

Everything is going fine so far. Just peachy. 

Until he actually starts moving.

You trip not once, but twice. Within the first thirty seconds. And you’ve hardly taken twenty steps.

So you aren't the best dancer. No big deal. Plus, this ain't even like dancing to the guy, it's like fucking. Your internal monologue freezes. Shit, you think. Suddenly it's a big deal.

“It's fine. I’ll lead,” he tells you in a tone you swear sounds sly and it suddenly hits you that this bastard taking charge is the green asshole equivalent of him pinning you to the mattress and pounding you in place. 

You curse to yourself and hear him chuckle next to your ear, a low and almost breathy thing, touched with just the right kind of subtle slickness that makes a cool shiver run through the trenches and dips of your shell. You swallow hard, hoping the inauthentic clearing of your throat that follows is an adequate enough attempt to mask the automatic, physical manifestation of your still definitely non-existent nerves. 

Turns out it’s only slightly easier once he’s guiding you physically. You have to give him credit for the effort he’s giving though; he deliberately takes it slow and easy, just until you get the gist of moving as one, sidesteps and all. You find yourself internally scolding yourself and repeatedly reminding yourself to relax but relaxing is often times far easier said than done, you know. _Well_ at that. 

You eventually begin easing into it, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. You decide on the former if only to give yourself some sort of peace of mind, but just as soon as you start developing a bit of faith in yourself, he’s bringing your hand to his lips and giving a quick kiss to your knuckles, throwing you off what little game you were only beginning to possess. And as though he hadn’t gone and tried to make things _cute_, he’s dropping both your hands back to their former position, back to wordlessly guiding you with a bit more speed. And once again, he’s apparently in the market for fucking with you, because as soon as you come to terms with the fact that that was weird as hell but you can _probably_ move past it, he’s bringing your linked hands up to briefly touch the side of his head, and in one swift motion afterwards, dipping you down unexpectedly to the point where your arm has to fly up to take ahold of his neck again. The bastard actually has the gall to _laugh_ at you a little. You, predictably, scowl in turn.

He pulls you up and you’re _really_ beginning to feel like his bitch the way he’s manhandling you. The way that he moves, despite it being abrupt and confusing to you, actually seems to be well-rehearsed and natural in some weird kinda way if you squint hard enough. You won’t lie; you do feel shitty knowing you’re not _good_ at this, but if his enthusiasm and patience is any indication of anything, he doesn’t seem to mind whatsoever. 

You try to keep on guard and (decently) prepared for any other movements you may not expect, but as he moves downward to press his forehead to yours, his ankle links with your own in way that causes you to almost fall on your ass; you don’t have time to wonder whether that was his intention, because soon afterwards he’s catching your other ankle in the same fashion just as he’s pulling you up. He flashes you a brief look that seems almost apologetic, and it strikes you for a moment that he’s acting as though this is something that can’t actually be _helped_. And then it dawns on you that every little thing you fail to understand is all just ritualistic. 

You’ll bite, you decide. If you’re gonna do this, you’re gonna do this; half-assing your way through shit just isn’t your deal, not in situations like these, anyway. So it’s your turn to catch him off guard— you wait another minute before catching his ankle in the same fashion just before he turns the both of you, and while he’s far better at naturally regaining his footing instead of tripping (likely because he’s _done_ this before, you remind yourself), he’s definitely giving you a look that you could only read as surprised. And once again, pleasantly so.

Slowly but surely you find rhythm together. It feels almost effortless now— gliding along naturally as one with a few bouts of playful twists and turns, spinning and dipping in ways that begin to seem almost wildly sensual even to you.

And then you hear his breath catch in his throat. Now, dancing is far from your thing in any sense of the word and you definitely don’t have a kink for doing the literal tango for two, yet somehow you find your own heartbeat steadily speeding up from the look he’s giving you alone. His grip tightens around your hand and you feel the fingers at your waist curl into the fabric of your clothes, and you almost stop breathing.

You notice the song beginning to come to a close; it’s a long song and you only now figure out that it’s probably one of theirs, meant for… y’know, _this_. Your last movements together feel slow and significant, and you’re wise to the fact that you should put the utmost of care into them. And you do. 

You finish your dance in exact timing with the music, him dipping you back so that once more are your foreheads pressed against one another’s, your hat having long-since laid abandoned on the floor.

After a few seconds he’s slowly pulling you back up with him, and when your hands finally leave each other for the first time since you started dancing, you can’t help but feel like a part of you is missing. You resist the urge to gag at your own nauseatingly sappy thought. 

And after a couple more moments of silence, now with everything said and done, you start to feel a bit odd. Like you should say something. Unsure of whether “that was amazing” or “best I’ve ever had” would suffice in this occasion, you opt instead for saying absolutely nothing. And then yanking him down into a rough kiss.

This dance you know. And luckily he’s pretty well-versed in it, too. He knows how to navigate around your sharp teeth in the same way he knows how to step around your clumsy feet and he knows how to make things romantic and _rough_ the same way he does when you’re dancing.

After a few seconds of equal and mutual, almost blind yet passionate fumbling, you finally find the perfect rhythm once he lets you take the reigns because this, this is _your_ waltz. You have him by the coat collars as you lead him back towards the wall your bed is pressed against, pushing him back with the palms of your hands as you feel him bump against your desired destination. You’re straddling him as soon as he finds your mattress, yanking away at his coat before moving to his bow tie. There’s always been something absurdly hot about undoing another man’s tie, but you hide your embarrassing fixation and enthusiasm for the piece of cloth between your claws by disguising it as enthusiasm for the act to come.

It only takes a few kisses and scrapings of his dull teeth against your neck for you to push him onto his back with full force and show him how to _really_ dance. 

You’ve got some questions. 

Now look, **you’re** _definitely_ satisfied. And if the sing-songy sigh to your left is indication of anything, he is too. But you’ve _really_ got some questions. Pillow talk has never been your forte and you’re not trying to practice, so you decide to release the beast that sits upon the tip of your tongue, ready to pounce just as soon as you open your mouth. And pounce it does. 

“So,” you start, your voice taking on that almost forgotten, post-fuck hazy rasp. 

“So,” he parrots, amusement evident in a word alone.

“That, uh, dance. How’d you get that to be… y’know.” You hope he knows. Because you certainly don’t. You’re having trouble expressing why that felt so… (for a lack of better words and at risk of embarrassing yourself in front of your inner monologue)... _right_.

He’s silent, and you know it’s not out of confusion because a confused Crowbar always equates to a mouthy once, so you decide it’s likely out of embarrassment. It’s a weirdly endearing thought considering you’ve just fucked twice in two completely different languages.

“It’s like this, see….” he begins, almost shly (almost), ”If you were swinging back and forth between red and black for someone, you’d take things sweet and slow but also have some sour turns now and again like biting and clawing and… and the likes. That’s like what that business was— some aggressive spins, dangerous dips here and there, that’s… it’s clovers. The sweet and slow stuff, that’s hearts. But you know that. You have that.” He pauses, seemingly chasing his fleeing train of thought. “Mouth to hand, hand to ear, forehead to forehead, foot to ankle, back again….” He’s vocalizing the motions you remember well, but stops there, knowing you’ve likely caught on to the routine he’s recalling aloud. “That’s gold.” 

“...Gold?” So you're curious. Who wouldn’t be. 

“It means uh. Well…” If he wasn’t embarrassed before, he definitely is now.” He swallows hard and you ignore how increasingly enamored with him you’re becoming every second now that passes. “Means uh. Commitment. Loyalty. Pretty much always goes hand in hand with other charms since in order for it to mean something real, it’s gotta punctuate something else.”

You don’t really get it. He seems to realize his explanation is rather nonsensical because he makes some disgruntled noise in the back of his throat before he tries again. “Alright…. yeah. _Yeah_. It’s like an exclamation mark, see. Adds that extra _oomf_ that punctuates whatever other charms you’re in and says this guy? This guy’s my main squeeze. Kinda like if you’ve got someone you’re going spades with and another guy you’re going hearts with, and another you’re all diamonds for. But you like the hearts fellow way more than the other two, so you sprinkle some gold in and everyone knows hearts is who you really roll with.” No wonder he’s embarrassed; not only is he teaching you sex ed, but you’re pretty sure he just told you you’re his main hoe. Your eyes narrow. Wait. 

“So you got some others lined up, or—“

“No,” he says quickly. You’re caught off guard, and he seems to have surprised himself too because he’s repeating himself more quiet now with another, retake of “no”.

“Some of us have different partners and all, but some of us don't. It’s a matter of personal preference. Either way gold just means it’s real is all. You can be gold with no other charms attached, but it don’t mean the same thing. In fact, it’s kind of a... childish thing and means you’re infatuated in some mutual “love at first sight” hullabaloo. You don’t gotta have a sentence on paper to throw down an exclamation mark, but without substance it really don’t amount to much, you get me?”

“Yeah,” you say. You do. 

In the silence that follows you do a small recap of his entire explanation, and suddenly you can’t help but laugh. He shoots you a look, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s one of disapproval.

“Did your research, huh?” Upon reflection it dawned on you that at some point he’d evidentially gone over your own quadrants with intent to thoroughly study. Crowbar clicks his tongue defensively once he’s a passenger in the same train of thought as you.

“Had to or else when shit hit the fan and you wound up laying in bed with me next to you wondering what in the goddamn just happened when you were literally toe to toe with me, I’d be going around in circles trying to even begin an explanation of what just went down.”

Alright so, he’s got you there. 

Wait.

Like hell he does.

“Yeah, you sure as fuck thought things through alright. That’s exactly why you tried to do-si-do with me and actually expected results.”

Crowbar scoffs, then grumbles the word “horseshoes”.

You hope to god that doesn’t mean swinging your partner round and round is another form of fucking for a different kind of romance. You stop thinking about it. You have a different uncomfortable question on your mind. 

“And uh,” you vaguely gesture downwards, and hope that lightning strikes twice and he guesses the gist again lest you be forced to articulate your inarguably more awkward next question. 

“Can’t always read minds, boss.”

Oh yeah, now he can’t. Real convenient. 

“So if you guys got your own way things go down how come you’re...” Adequately equipped for your way.

“Reproduction.”

He says it more quickly and easily than anticipated. So he did get it. Asshole. 

“Kinda at a loss for decent comparisons here, but it’s not, uh. It ain’t fun. Not like how you see it, anyhow. The fun part is what comes after— the dance.”

So they fuck carapace-like and _then_ actually fuck. Except carapace style to them is…. what? Evidently it ain’t even foreplay, it’s more like… yeah, you can’t come up with a proper comparison, neither. 

You both share another silence, and for the first time tonight, it’s an entirely comfortable one. But of course, the guy next to you’s gotta go and ruin it not even a few minutes later. 

His weight shifts a few times, and it dawns on you that he’s probably wondering whether he’s overstayed his welcome. You reassure him that his concerns are nonsense not to be fussed over the only way you know how.

“Really jumping at the chance to let the whole crew know you’re doing the salsa with the head hancho, ain’t you? Settle down and go the fuck to sleep.” 

“Stars,” he sighs. “Salsa is— Know what, forget it.”

“Trying to.” 

He actually laughs, and you feel him make himself comfortable next to you. Again, feelingsy bullshit is far from your forte and far from his so you know you don’t have to worry about him snuggling up next to you, but you’d be lying if you told yourself knowing he’s at ease besides you doesn’t make you feel some type of way.

You’re well-aware of the fact that your relationship may be weird to hell and back then back again, but it’s yours and fuck if you’d have either it or him any other way. After all, your name is Spades Slick and you’ve _already_ made it through hell and back more times than you can count. But this? Shit, you think, this might be the first time during your trek through hell that you’ve accidentally stumbled upon your own little piece of heaven.


End file.
